In The Wake Of The Storm
by DagonSt
Summary: After "The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel," Percy still has loose ends to tie up.
1. Chapter 1

**I. And The Days Pass Unnumbered**

The storm that had so wracked the French nation had passed. The hideous maelstrom whose center was the Place de la Greve collapsed upon itself, even as the guillotine at last fell inexorably on the neck of the "Incorruptible" who once ruled Paris and the Revolution, riding the winds and stirring the tempest ever further across the countryside. It ended with him, as though like the Welshman Glendower he had conjured rebellion by sorcery.

When the storm season finally ended in that Thermidor, there came in its wake a curious clarity, a calm in which the ruins of the ancient regime, now coated in the blood of the Terror, loomed large. It was a time of contemplation, and of rebuilding. A time to sift through the wreckage and make sense of the chaotic years that had ended in that summer, as a delirium dissipates when the fever breaks. For some, it was a time of reckoning: no longer caught up in the storm's fury, they must account for themselves to those with cooler heads and cleaner hands. Others mourned blood spilt, innocent or otherwise, in too much haste. For most it was a time of release from fear or ecstasy, cooling and quenched by the winter snows.

But in the spring, the corpses of deeds not laid to rest emerge and lie stark in the filth, uncompromising on the barren earth. So the skeletons of the Terror, and the older ones of monarchy, were again laid bare in their hideousness, before some reconstruction could be accomplished and relegate them safely to the past. Not all revenants were so easily exorcised.

**II. Interlude: Dream of a Hero**

When at length he did open the door, his visitor proved to be neither Hastings nor Ffoulkes, nor any of the other worthies who often had occasion to beg sanctuary at Richmond at odd hours of the night. Still, Percy decided to err on the side of civility. 'Ah! My dear friend Chambertin - such an unexpected pleasure!'

'Chauvelin, Sir Percy. Chauvelin.' The thin Frenchman corrected him without hope or anger, and might not have bothered except from habit.

'Of course! Never could catch those demmed foreign names,' Percy smiled, letting his usual mask of near-idiotic congeniality cover his loathing of the little man before him. 'Pleasure to see you again, after we parted in such messy circumstances, eh?' He'd left the Frenchman bound hand and foot in the ruins of his revolution, facing arrest and execution, and good riddance to him. But of course Chauvelin would have arranged for his own safety - self-preservation above all among those monsters.

'Yes...they rather were, I'm afraid,' Chauvelin replied with a thin smile and eyes far away. 'But after all, you gave me a sporting chance - you Englishmen are so fond of your sports!'

'More amusing than your demmed guillotine, I assure you, Chambertin. I'd half a mind to fetch you from Paris myself; but business, alas.'

Chauvelin nodded absently. 'Business, yes.' The silence lengthened before he spoke again. 'My daughter, Blakeney?'

'La, but you've never asked for her before! Quite happy, I promise you.' A picture of innocence and nobility - nearly impossible to think that had come from this miserable vermin.

'Of course. I thank you for that, Sir Percy.' But Chauvelin turned away - to owe his worst enemy for his daughter's life still stung his pride, what little the Scarlet Pimpernel had left him over the years. Or perhaps it was something else; he leaned somewhat against the side-table for support.

'Think nothing of it, my good man. Such a charming girl could not have been left to your demmed incomprehensible idea of "justice" even for your sake.' The Scarlet Pimpernel paused for a second before loosing his next barb. 'A demmed pity you missed the wedding. Marvelous affair, really.'

Chauvelin's head jerked up. '_Wedding!_' Percy let him sputter incoherently for a minute, then laughed heartily.

'Well, of course! She married that young man of hers, you remember? Oh, they wanted to ask your permission, but you have to admit it would've looked demmed bad for a man in your position... a rather precarious position, yes? ...To have received letters from a girl regrettably accused of treason and living in England. The dear child wouldn't dream of bringing harm to you...'

That shot struck home; Percy could see Chauvelin's hand clench against the table, his knuckles whitening. The man was shaking...

Percy's satisfied smile turned into a wince when that trembling upset the flower arrangement adorning the table. Marguerite was quite fond of that vase. The crash made the habitually nervous Frenchman whirl around. He stared down at the shattered vase, but Percy could see nothing in his face: no pleasure, regret, fear or even surprise. Only his hand still clutching the table, bearing his weight, and his face paler than the white roses now scattered on the carpet.

Percy allowed himself an exasperated sigh over the vase. 'I say, man...you're not ill? The crossing can be ghastly this time of year, and it's unseasonable wet besides.' Some chill seemed to have affected Chauvelin, of the mind if not the body - the man seemed quite subdued, the rage and fervor that drove him on, and provided such amusement for the stolid English gentleman, completely occluded.

'It is unseasonably cold,' Chauvelin repeated without inflection or irony. 'But it will pass. Something I caught at the Conciergerie, Sir Percy, of little consequence. It will pass.' The ex-agent favored Percy with a thin smile in a face drained of blood.

'La, but there's a wretched choice of lodgings! You must be cold... Demmed fatigued, anyway?' Hospitality constrained Percy from turning the man out into the night as he devoutly wished to, but at least he could get the wretch out of his sight for now, and into a fast carriage to London tomorrow. Let him inflict his unwelcome presence on such friends as he may find there.

'No... No, quite well rested, _je t'assure_.' His gaze flickered away again, restlessly. '_Tu pense_... You think la Revolution is over? The Terror, you call it... It lives, Sir Percy. The crowds scream for blood, _la guillotine_ is fed. She cares nothing if the blood is less aristocratic than before. But republican heads matter but little to the Scarlet Pimpernel, eh?' Chauvelin's accent, usually quite passable, had grown suddenly atrocious, and he seemed near to losing his command of the language altogether.

Percy, taking this for a resurgence of Chauvelin's temper, laughed. 'La, did you think I would fail you, my dear fellow? I'd have come quick enough, if you hadn't shown up at my door! Never fear!'

But Chauvelin failed to rise to the bait, staring into the shadows behind his reluctant host. 'There is no revelation, Sir Percy. no truth, no justice, no mercy -' Swaying, he caught himself on the table again. '_Ni le ciel ni l'enfer_...'

'Chauvelin, really!'

'Damn you, and your English games...' Blakeney reached out, if not in comfort then at least to assure himself of his former adversary's solidity. But Chauvelin flinched away, further into the shadows.

'I say, Chambertin, you're acting demmed peculiar,' Percy broke in, with a slight frown. It was hardly possible that Chauvelin could have any power left, any means of revenging himself upon the Scarlet Pimpernel. Unless he'd decided that assassination was to his taste after all.

'_Tourmente_...madness, isolation...and death, Sir Percy. It should always have been 'and', rather than 'or'.

His suspicions seemed confirmed; Blakeney strode towards the small Frenchman. Still he retained the impenetrable facade of the fop that so infuriated Chauvelin and might yet make him falter. 'I entreat you, my good man, don't lose your -'

But the Frenchman, anticipating the idiom, dissolved into a chilling, hysterical laughter. He seemed scarcely aware of his knees giving way; of sliding down the wall and disappearing into the shadows there before the shocked and pitying gaze of Sir Percival Blakeney, who suddenly found himself with no desire to learn whether the creature before him was an apparition or a lunatic. The End.

**III. In Circles**

The Scarlet Pimpernel sailed for France scarcely a fortnight later, hounded by a morbid vision in sable in whose tortured laughter echoed all the screams of the Grecian Furies, whose law held no mercy for the accused.

Sir Percy himself had concluded that whatever guilt he felt for his part in the summer's events was solely on behalf of Fleurette, that innocent soul who anxiously awaited news of her beloved father. That his dreams dwelt more on ex-Agent Chauvelin himself it was his pleasure to overlook.

True to the country's chaotic condition, locating Chauvelin proved more difficult than obtaining an audience with him. In this one case, the merciful Tallien, goaded perhaps by the accusation of his wife, had proved less than merciful; some months after Robespierre had been marched to the guillotine, and his adherents variously executed or pardoned, that least of his allies remained in the Prison of the Conciergerie. However, by some administrative arrangement or accident, his name did not appear in the rolls of the accused, nor of the condemned, nor of the imprisoned. ex-Agent Chauvelin, disgraced, had been abandoned and now forgotten. Or, as perhaps it was some malice rather than oversight, he had been expunged.

Sir Percy thus spent a fruitless fortnight in the south of France, thinking that the fox had gone to ground in his own territory. He was quickly assured (when he got around to asking) that Citizen Armand had not been there since the time he had arrived on horseback in a perfect fury, firing his long-time servant and her daughter Adele and leaving his lovely cottage to desertion and ruin. That had been more than a year before. Of the household, Mme Louise now depended upon her sister for support and her daughter Adele had disappeared not long after to try her fortunes in the Revolution.

Deciding other lines of inquiry might bear better results, Blakeney returned to Paris and in the guise of a scrivener obtained access to the records of the de Chauvelin estate, in the thought that perhaps the man had gone to ground in some ancestral chateau, or thrown himself upon the mercy of more fortunate relatives. The bulk of the estate, it transpired, had passed from the hands of Chauvelin _pere_ to a second or third cousin, his own son removed from the will for indiscretions unstated. The current Marquis had been left his title and a sizeable yearly income that hinted at gambling debts, a profligate lifestyle, or perhaps indiscriminate spending. None of which Percy could reconcile with the sober, almost puritanical atheist of his acquaintance. The cousin had lost both estate and head in 1792, and the _ci-devant_'s lands had been confiscated.

He finally had a stroke of luck, stumbling upon the asthmatic veteran Rateau, whom he had impersonated to brilliant effect in his last adventure as the Pimpernel. This man told him, amid curses and coughs, that he himself had seen Chauvelin, imprisoned after all in the Conciergerie where he had obtained a job - finding honest work was difficult with a convict's brand, however honestly gotten. From there it was a simple matter to infiltrate the prison and see for himself how his enemy had fared, and how prophetic his own imaginings.

**IV. Surveillance**

In prison Chauvelin had regained some of that dignity and nobility he had so willingly shed in the service of his country. Passionately devoted to his cause, he now made no pretences at martyrdom, and nor did he affect a change of conscience in this utmost disgrace. Chauvelin was fixed - not so loving of life as to cling to it, nor quite ready to abandon it for no purpose. He existed, silent and trapped, in his dungeon.

But his arrest had not failed to leave its mark - Chauvelin knew himself to be a broken man. Prepared to abase himself in any way to capture the Scarlet Pimpernel, he would utter no plea, scarcely a word in his own defense, save that he had served the Republic. The squalor that had reduced so many of the nobility to baseness had made of this Terrorist a noble in attitude, if not ideology. And too, there was something new in the attitude with which he regarded the motto of the Republic, scrawled haphazardly in chalk upon his wall. At times his pale eyes would fall upon the phrase '_Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité ou la Mort_' and mingled with his respect and love was now something that might be called cynicism, and the seeds of contempt.

Percy observed something of this on his clandestine visits to the cell. Not to compromise his identity, Percy acted Rateau to the hilt, coughing and flinging rough insults at the impassive prisoner. Chauvelin's pride, it seemed, would not now permit him to answer such accusations from such a man, nor to face his tormentor. Had he, he might have noticed an appraising look in the laborer's eyes, or how they measured his slightest response to the slanders on his good name, the curses on his former compatriots, the sneers at his vanished prestige. In short, he would have seen the Scarlet Pimpernel, looking for the slightest excuse to abandon him to a well-deserved fate. And, much to his dismay, finding none.

**V. Stratagems**

Deciding a more formal interview was in order, Sir Percy provided the guards with liberal quantities of alcohol to ensure their co-operation and distance; as fond as he was of risky ventures, it would not do to have Chauvelin executed as an English spy before he'd decided whether or not to save him.

He found Chauvelin idling over a half-eaten meal, contemplating the slogan on his wall. As was his custom, he ignored the intruder. Percy closed the cell door and, crossing to stand behind the Frenchman, laid a hand familiarly on his shoulder. 'Even you must admit that's not much in the way of decoration,' the asthmatic veteran observed quietly in the tones of British aristocracy.

'Sir Percy,' the other returned at the same volume, but with a catch in his voice from rage, or suppressed amusement. 'You just can't stay away, can you?' He brushed the Englishman's hand off with an irritable gesture, turning to face him. 'And when you've finished gloating, you're quite welcome to leave again.'

'And you'll miss your chance to capture the Scarlet Pimpernel?' Percy leaned nonchalantly against the dank wall. 'My, how the times do change.'

'I would denounce you in a second if it'd send you to the guillotine.' The Englishman's presence had caught, like a spark, rekindling a fervent hatred in Chauvelin's eyes and voice.

Percy grinned. 'You've denounced me so often, I'd be demmed surprised if anyone listened at all. But have no fear, my dear Chambertin - didn't I say I'd come back for you?'

'You must forgive me for not arranging my affairs to accommodate you.'

'Egad, sir - if this is your idea of an arrangement, you have far worse taste or far lower standards than I care to contemplate.'

'It is the will of the Republic,' the Frenchman returned acidly.

Blakeney stopped, caught up short. No, this wasn't the way to win; playing the fool only irritated Chauvelin, and somehow it wasn't enough to spirit him out of this hole. That would be no better than stealing aristocrats from the Terror when what he intended was to persuade away one of its staunchest supporters. He straightened, glanced out the window, and turned back to the Frenchman with a changed mien.

'Are you so intent on remaining here? Tell me, Chauvelin - what ideal of this republic inspires you? _Egalité_? _Fraternité_? Surely not you who sneer at the uncultured brutes responsible for massacres; you share their guilt, but when have you ever wished yourself brothers with them? _Liberté_ for whom? Those few, those very few, you deem equal - that is, equally devoted - as yourself, sir? Or is it _la mort_ you fancy, citizen? Death for them all, aristo and _sans-culotte_, _ci-devant_ and patriot alike consumed in a sea of blood. By God, that's certainly the only one of the lot you've taken any part in, my dear Marquis.'

Seeing Chauvelin flinch at the title, defiant but hesitating over how to strike back, Percy suppressed a smile and concluded in a more conciliatory vein. 'The rest was never your cause, Armand, and the only death you can achieve now is your own. So let that go and come with me; I'll see you home well enough.'

'You speak nothing but nonsense even when you aren't acting, Blakeney,' Chauvelin hissed, a viper in the shadows. Backed into what Percy hoped was an inescapable trap.

'Even so,' Percy continued steadily, pressing his advantage. 'What would it accomplish that Danton's and Robespierre's heads did not? Surely you could better serve your Republic by living - if indeed she wants your service at all. Which,' he added pointedly, 'appears most unlikely.'

'And you, on the other hand, would have me disgrace myself and her by fleeing - like a traitor. I thank you, no.'

'You forget your other responsibilities. Fleurette -'

'Is, I should think, her husband's care.'

'She loves you still.'

'And has grown used to my absence.'

'She has not forgotten you. Your country has, and her remembrance would likely mean your death. You know your enemies better than I do.

'And I am as safe from them here as I wish to be. Good day, Sir Percy.' Chauvelin had risen, speaking through his teeth and like to lose his temper in another instant.

Blakeney sighed. 'Good day, M. Chauvelin. _Au revoir_.' He sketched a bow completely out of place on Rateau's figure.

Chauvelin gave him a malevolent stare, and though his eyes fairly glowed with hatred he tempered his voice, not to be overheard. 'Go home, Sir Percy. Go home to your English manor and harmless sport - and leave me at peace.'

Blakeney left, forecasting gloomily that it would take months to talk the madman back to sense, if it could be done at all, and wondering how on earth he would justify himself to Marguerite.

**VI. A Flower And A Song**

For a week he kept his distance, hoping time and the tedium of prison life might do more for Chauvelin's disposition than his presence would.

'Your daughter wrote,' he began when he did return.

'This week?' Chauvelin inquired ironically, unastonished by the Englishman's presence.

'Before I came, of course.' He handed the message over.

Chauvelin took the envelope casually. 'Asking me to visit, no doubt. She is as ignorant of my circumstances as she is of politics. Correct, Sir Percy?'

'I would not dream of causing the dear girl such pain on your behalf,' the baronet assured him readily. 'Er - before you read, I did have a question about your daughter.'

The prisoner set the letter down, trying to conceal his impatience. Despite his renunciation of all else, he seemed eager enough for news on this front.

'It occurs to me - she's nothing I'd expect from your relations. Those you'd acknowledge, at least. You raised her alone?'

'Yes.' Chauvelin's voice was tight, and Percy remembered that by all reports he had loved his wife while she lived, and had never remarried.

'Then why, man, did you raise her contrary to everything you profess to believe?'

'Nonsense again, Blakeney.'

'Come now! She's charming, naive, completely innocent of your Republic, indeed even a true Christian! You had renounced your rank so far as to live in a village where no one knew your status or wealth. You told the girl her own mother's name was "Marseillaise", and yet! Yet you named _her_ after the standard of a dynasty you hoped to destroy, and raised her as a perfect nobleman's daughter! How do you explain yourself?'

'Not to you. Not to you at all, Blakeney; it's neither your right nor your concern.'

'To question your beliefs? To question how deeply you cherish them? Better me than the Prosecutor, Chauvelin. Remember how your own flesh and blood was condemned - by your own hand - for treason, because of what you had her taught?'

The fresher memory was the more painful. 'Enough!'

'You made her an aristocrat. A noble, by nature, by upbringing, according to your own standards. And you yourself played the country squire no less than I, on a scale easier to justify to yourself.'

'Blakeney.'

'How much of this Revolution have you approved, Chauvelin? Which do you truly believe - the rhetoric of the Terror or that in which you instructed your daughter? How much of these past years have you been indulging an academic interest in politics while preserving your own household in the manner to which you were born and bred?'

'Get out before I call the guards.'

'You know they will not come. Think on it, Chauvelin. Promise me.' He shook Chauvelin sharply by the collar, heard his teeth rattle.

The former spy hissed. 'Yes... my word of honor, Blakeney. As a _gentleman_, if you like. For all it's worth.'

'More than you would like me to believe, I hope. Good day.'

**VII. What Remains**

Though he doubted Chauvelin could discern the distinction between himself and Rateau even now, Percy amused himself elsewhere while the man deliberated - or, considering his disposition, more likely stewed. Three days later, Rateau related, with not a little pleasure, that the Terrorist ate and slept poorly, and would not speak to anyone.

The night of the fourth day, therefore, Percy undertook the trip to Chauvelin's cell in the uniform of a guard, which was less offensive to his sensibilities than Rateau's garb, and would be of much more use in the rescue he hoped to effect.

He found Chauvelin much as Rateau had described; though he turned to face Percy, the Frenchman made no other move to acknowledge his presence for some time. Percy congratulated himself on having allowed time for such delays and waited patiently for the Frenchman to notice him.

At length, recognizing that the Englishman would have his answer, Chauvelin made a slight gesture of defeat. 'Blakeney.'

'Even so,' he replied evenly. 'Will you come?'

Chauvelin did not reply, turning to fix a haunted gaze on the motto of his state, the '_Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité ou la Mort_' even now visible in the dark. 'You are wrong, Sir Percy. I have always believed in the justice of the Revolution.'

'In your public life, certainly. Not the personal. That's all you can have left, now. If you choose it.'

'So it seems,' but he seemed disinclined to either discuss or act upon it.

Percy waited as long as he dared, but the night waned and he would have to depart, one way or the other. He extended his hand, resisting the temptation to speak. He could as easily provoke the man into staying as he could convince him to leave.

And Chauvelin, damning himself to the hell of traitors, took the proffered hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**_I. __Moi seul voudrais briser tes fers_**

He entered the back room dressed in the uniform of an officer, and sighed inwardly at the outraged, nearly nauseated expression on his traveling-companion's face. Couldn't he betray his country and have done with it? There was no point in these attacks of regret, save to be difficult. And if he balked at so simple a thing as this, it would be a wonder if they ever reached the coast.

"We'll be able to travel safely in those. You're no stranger to the theory, unless you truly did mean to take orders back in Calais. Put them on, and we'll be off," the tall officer concluded in English. He thrust the bundle of clothing at the hesitating Frenchman, who took it to keep him from dropping it.

"I must ask," he asked tightly, "is this truly necessary?"

"Yes. Yes, it _is_ necessary - don't complain, it's your own government's fault that's the only way to travel." Zounds, the man was infuriating. The Englishman was used to giving orders to his subordinates, as the acknowledged and acclaimed captain. It rankled to have to explain himself every ten minutes to one who, in the rules of the game, ranked no better than a trophy. Like the pretty girl indeed, hedging and retreating and fickle.

He waited by the window and heard nothing behind him.

"If you won't wear that, my good man, we'll parade through all Paris with you dressed as my spinster aunt."

He counted the seconds under his breath: half a minute for the fugitive to decide that prison was not, in fact, preferable to this; another to conclude the same about the 'spinster aunt', a threat he was more than willing, and able, to carry out. Adding his unfamiliarity with the outfit, altogether ten minutes wasted getting the little man to don a uniform he'd known was inevitable when the Englishman opened the door wearing one.

Sir Percival Blakeney, the Scarlet Pimpernel, undertook the rescue of French aristocrats fallen afoul of the now five-year-old Revolution as a hobby, one more entertaining and more rewarding than the seasonal fox hunts. Never had he allowed one of his pitiable charges to be harmed or recaptured. Certainly he had never dreamed of injuring one himself. This time, however, the refugee was Armand, Marquis de Chauvelin, ex-ambassador of the French Republic, close associate of the late Robespierre, Terrorist, and extremely reluctant emigre. The Pimpernel found himself wondering if keeping away from rivers on the trip north would cure him of the urge to simply tie the man up in a sack and drown him.

Nevertheless, they stopped by water that first night; a stream in the forest north of Paris that probably fed into the Seine or perhaps did not - Percy usually chose not to risk remaining in the area after an escapade, and thus was less familiar with Paris' environs than he might have liked. There was, he was aware, a road, and there were inns, but Chauvelin could not risk being recognized, and Percy did not want to risk a change of heart so close to Paris.

As soon as they stopped, Chauvelin dropped his pack - which must have been a burden for the decidedly unathletic man - and began divesting himself of the uniform it had taken so much trouble to get him into. Percy, digging into his pack for tinder, paused to stare, wondering how this fit would end, and what it mean. The Frenchman methodically removed the uniform, stripping it off with some haste born of his nervous temperament, until he was in shirt-sleeves and the pantalons rouge. The wind was cold, and it really was a pity Chauvelin's tattered honor would not permit him the over-coat. He sat no nearer the fire than he should, and shivered.

Percy tossed another stick on, sending sparks into the air. "I do believe you're trying to kill yourself."

"I won't wear that when it isn't necessary."

"I won't argue that you're not a disgrace to the uniform - I think we're agreed on that. But at the moment you're an army officer, and as such ought to be suited up. I'll even grant it more fashionable than your usual get-up."

The Frenchman's glare, as inevitable as Sir Percival Blakeney's attention to the fine details of fashion, was not long in coming. Percy continued the tradition by ignoring it in favor of the apparently one-sided conversation.

"I think you'd best put it back on. You've no honor to lose by doing so, and you ought to preserve that dignity you have yet remaining to you. Else, I'll take the decision from you, and you can sleep tied into that coat - and gagged." And if necessary, he'd be glad to carry the man to the Channel itself in like manner, if only to spare himself more of this. He doubted Chauvelin would appreciate the fact that the most difficult rescue he had yet undertaken was the one in which they were - ostensibly - on the same side.

**II. _Tous les agents du crime_**

Though his inclination was to spirit Chauvelin out of France by the most direct means possible, Percy was aware that even the most ignorant peasant's credulity would be strained by the appearance of two army officers walking along the fields and hedgerows to avoid towns, traveling north. Worse, it would invite curiosity, which in Revolutionary France was suspicion. Therefore, when the forest gave way to farmland, he secured lodgings in the barn of an inn only a little removed from the nearest township - the respect given to the military of France not up to that accorded British officers. Scant wonder, in Blakeney's opinion, when the British officer corps was composed of gentlemen and the French entirely of scoundrels.

Chauvelin ate quickly, his head down as if he still expected recognition. Percy took more time to evaluate his surroundings, though not the thin soup provided by the hostess. The inn, he thought, must get precious little traffic: it was after dark, past time for new arrivals, and yet the innkeeper had fussed about finding food for them. They did not, or could not, accommodate even as many guests as they had. Added, a grudge against the uniform occasioning their stay in the barn to-night.

Nevertheless, he struck up a conversation with the hostess on the innocuous subject of the crops and expected harvest in this patch of countryside. During a lull - family concerns having momentarily forced the woman's exit - Chauvelin glanced up at the Englishman. "You simply cannot stand not to be liked."

"Which is of course a greater fault than refusing to make any effort to be likable. I think I tolerate it well enough, in any case."

"Ridicule, yes. Disdain, certainly. But hatred? Why _do_ you think you've put so much effort into saving my life? Goodnight, Sir Percy." Blakeney glanced over, took in Chauvelin rising and his still-unfinished soup before nodding vaguely in return. The man would spend half the night thrashing about anyway, small wonder he was tired.

He himself spent an hour more lingering over a surprisingly tolerable glass of wine and a seat near the fire before trudging out to the barn with another bottle for the road and a fervent prayer for a haystack free of rot.

Two paces into the even deeper blackness of the barn, he heard movement and froze. The flare of a torch revealed the two bayonets he had nearly walked into and several more - some half-dozen in total - surrounding him. From behind the torch came Chauvelin's laconic voice. "C'est lui - le mouron rouge. Tie him well."

Percy blinked and then, thinking a bit of rope preferable to impalement, set the wine-bottle on the ground and offered his hands. He fixed his eyes in the direction of the voice, grudgingly admitting to himself that the nervous Frenchman was not completely unskilled at dramatic effect. "I see I should have taken that for a warning, Chambertin - what is this?" He spoke in English, the aristocrat's drawl that so irritated the man. Why? Because Chauvelin had spoken in French. Deprived of any weapon, his words themselves served as the challenge.

The Terrorist seemed to smile in the murk beyond the torchlight. "A reward. A pardon." He paused, slipping into English. "A final chance. We have never been friends, Sir Percy."

Another order had the Englishman bound hand and foot, then roughly deposited into a convenient - and thankfully dry - haystack. He turned enough to view his new traveling companions. Soldiers all, ragged, thin, and well armed. Their dress told the tale they did not bother to share: the ill-equipped conscripts had deserted from the border and made haste for - likely the south, but their mutterings did not carry far enough to convey an accent. Chauvelin had likely convinced them that the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel would be worth discharges and pardons for all.

Percy sighed. Half an hour was, as he knew, sufficient time to concoct an adequate plan for abduction or escape. An hour, it seemed, was time enough to set one into action. It was with some irritance that he contemplated the phenomenal luck - _his_ luck - that Chauvelin had stumbled into.

**III. _Les aristocrates la lanterne_**

When a hero abandons his wife for a months-long snipe hunt in the French countryside on the trail of one's greatest enemy, rescues him, trusts him, he expects something better than to be committed to chains as soon as the opportunity arises. Thus when, at dawn, Sir Percival Blakeney was awakened by the protest of his fettered limbs and the utterly charming sound of his latest charity case and his conspirators planning his demise, he might be forgiven for voicing rather unflattering opinions of the former.

Sir Percy was blessed with unusual patience: he waited until he found himself marching next to the treacherous Frenchman before sharing his opinions, and then in moderation. He must, after all, act as though he had been expecting something of the sort. It was as impossible for the Scarlet Pimpernel to be astounded by Chauvelin's treachery as for him to be hurt by it. Or, of course, for the Terrorist to have any sense of shame at his behavior.

Nevertheless, Blakeney passed up strangling the Frenchman (his hands being inconveniently bound) in favor of a few hissed imprecations and stumbling - terribly sorry, Chambertin, but between these demmed ropes and the road... - and somehow sending the diminuitive Frenchman tumbling to the dirt rather than himself. Chauvelin stopped the game by giving him a wider berth, saving him further dust and Percy the difficulty of making a civil apology.

Added, it allowed the Englishman to contemplate his position. The ropes chafed, Chauvelin's conduct had turned his stomach, and the Frenchman persisted in speaking to him in English. Hardly a deathly insult, but nothing Chauvelin did was likely to do anything but irritate him now.

That night they camped, which meant cold and no food, only the wine they had carried with them. Three or four took the task of guarding their catch and grilling him on the matter of his exploits. Some benevolent facet of the French gift for dissembling had ensured that Percy had not been responsible for fully half of his alleged deeds. The deserters, still little more than boys, were admiring; the Englishman was thoroughly entertained. He nodded at the extravagant gestures and glared at Chauvelin who - at a safe distance and behind the map (his map!) - threw out abridged and editorialized versions of their banter in English.

In English, because the great Scarlet Pimpernel apparently knew no French. If the Grand Armee had any standards at all, the impossibility of it would not have gone unnoticed. Ignorance ensured that it did. Percy could end the illusion at any time - and might well have, had he any idea what Chauvelin was gaining by the deception. And had Chauvelin's commentary not managed to pass as a particularly black form of humor. In English. Why had Chauvelin wanted that excuse to speak to him? Why... It occurred to him finally that he could simply ask.

"Why the deuce do you persist with the translations, Shovelin? Demmed annoying." Let the Frenchman justify it to his colleagues.

"I have my reasons. Cooperate, if you care to live," Chauvelin snarled at him as the ex-private finished the next phrase.

Blakeney nodded encouragingly at the storyteller. "You fail to inspire confidence."

The strange pantomime - and stranger conversation - continued similarly. "I imagine that's why I was in prison."

"Doubtless. I'm surprised you remember."

Chauvelin regarded him steadily. "I haven't forgotten."

The Englishman laughed. "Egad, then I've mistaken you entirely - you aren't selling me out after all!"

Chauvelin's eyes narrowed; then he looked away. "I _have_ sold you out, idiot. It was expedient."

Percy watched him for a long moment, his head tilted slightly to the side. "Expedient. I can't say that I care much for your modern virtues, my good man." Chauvelin gave no sign of having heard him.

**IV. _Poursuivons-les jusqu'au trepas_**

The Somme ran nearly white through the plain of Artois, swollen with the winter's heavy snows and roaring its way westwards to the coast. To the north lay Arras, capital of Artois province, supported, like towns on both sides of the Belgian border, by the textiles trade. Moreover, the birthplace of the _quondam_ leader of Revolutionary France, Maximilien de Robespierre.

On the south bank of the Somme stood a motley band composed of six deserters, armed; one disgraced and condemned follower of Robespierre, and an English adventurer whose ransom was sufficient to redeem the first seven. The difficulty, then, was in crossing.

It had taken some half-day's march to find a ruined dam that spanned most of the river. In better times, little more than a fish-trap and now conceivably a bridge, albeit one knee-deep in rushing water. They went across single-file, two soldiers before and behind, and two separating Ex-Ambassador Chauvelin from Sir Percival Blakeney. Blakeney, his hands still bound, walked first. Accordingly, Chauvelin had an excellent vantage from which to catch - and hopefully prevent - any attempt at escape. Accordingly, he had a very clear view of his prize capture stumbling in the frigid water. The tall man regained his balance and turned to assure his nervous guard that all was well when, slipping again, he lost it entirely and fell into the rushing water.

"_Nom d'un chien!_" Chauvelin's mind raced to the inevitable conclusion - the Scarlet Pimpernel had played his hand - slipped his bonds somehow, and would waste no time making his escape. "Watch the river! He'll surface - _Don't_ fire!" he barked. The chill of the water, a moment ago his overriding concern, faded into nothing beside his quick-risen panic. The water rushed on. Seven men watched the river and its banks. Nothing disturbed the scene.

**V. _Partage l'horreur qui m'anime_**

Armand Chauvelin waited to die. He had given the best part of his life to smashing idols, the symbols and institutions of faith. He prided himself on lacking it. As the sun set, he prayed to no god for intervention or salvation. He spent no time dissecting his past sins or his likely fate. All things ended, and he could expect no reprieve.

This afternoon, he had seen his greatest enemy, Sir Percival Blakeney, drown. Blakeney was British, heir of that great seafaring race. Chauvelin closed his eyes and saw again the undisturbed river, savoring the irony of his death by water. A short distance away, a circle of men crouched around a fire and watched him. He understood their desperation, had once shared it. He hoped his death would profit them better than his efforts had ever done him. The seeping cold reminded him of his cell in the Conciergerie. Here he was tied and bound, could not even move to keep warm or avoid the wind. Even awareness of his aching body slowly dissolved. Only the taste of ashes lingered.

Did the Revolution permit space for a blood feud? He had held his, guarded the Scarlet Pimpernel's identity as well as the man's own accomplices, to have the pleasure of bringing him to justice. No matter. The Scarlet Pimpernel was dead, and what was he but Chauvelin's nemesis? In the government's favor or out (and now fugitive, exile, irrevocably out) and even through governments, his hunt for the Scarlet Pimpernel had been a constant. But no more. The river had done what his own disgrace and Blakeney's mercy could not to erase accumulated layers of hatred and obsession. Calais, Paris, his own home in the south...were meaningless. It was over. At dawn, Chauvelin trusted, he would be shot.

In that thought, he found something like hope.

**VI. _L'univers t'abandonne_**

A touch on his shoulder, one spot of warmth to remind him how very cold everything else was. Chauvelin shuddered and tried to shake it off. The hand withdrew only to clamp over his mouth a second later, and the grip shifted slightly as the man behind him leaned in. Chauvelin closed his eyes, willing him not to speak.

"I hope my disappearance was not too inconvenient," came the intimate whisper. He clenched his teeth together at the sound. "Do contain yourself."

Chauvelin did not move. The hand withdrew again, this time to begin tugging at his bound wrists. "I hate you," he whispered.

Percy had managed to find a horse, much to Chauvelin's irritation. Percy had not drowned, even more to Chauvelin's irritation. Percy's plan involved the two of them running a fair distance across a tilled field in plain view of six deserters. "You're an idiot, Blakeney."

Sir Percy stood and hauled the Frenchman to his feet. "You're wasting time again," he returned, entirely too loudly. As they took off across the field, the sentry roused himself and started yelling to wake up those of his comrades that Percy had not. Chauvelin did not speak to him again until well after they had left the gun-toting deserters far behind, the sun had nearly set, and he had finally caught his breath.

Percy could not detect Chauvelin's breath over the gait of the horse, but all the same could hazard a guess at the Frenchman's state from the weight against his own back, and the hand clenched tightly on his jacket for support. The man had always suffered from nerves; at times, they had proved a better ally to the Scarlet Pimpernel than the League. Chauvelin had never found his sudden appearances as amusing as he - still - did, and evidently liked his plans even less. Then, too, the man's accomplices had turned on him rather suddenly, and he might well have injuries apart from having been tied up half the night. Percy realized that, between finding the campsite and hauling him away from it, he had not actually seen the Frenchman move. He sighed and nevertheless waited another hour before preparing to deal with his least-favorite emigre.

The Frenchman half-fell when they stopped, sinking to the ground as if he had not the strength to hold himself up. Percy peered down at him. "'Sblood, man! It's scarcely midday, must you lie down?" Chauvelin lifted a chalk-white face to look at him before staggering wordlessly to his feet.

"Ghastly sight," Percy muttered. He'd seen the Terrorist's face like that once - blank and pale as death. And he had not gotten up... The Englishman seized Chauvelin's shoulder and thrust him back a pace, looking him over critically. "You're fine. We're going on. Collapse at night, if you really must."

At sunset, Chauvelin dismounted with somewhat more grace and glared balefully at the Englishman. Percy judged him steadier, but noted the exhaustion sketched in his shoulders and a barely perceptible shudder, his continuing pallor. Unsurprising, really, for a man always skirting the edge of mental breakdown. Percy wondered if he hadn't tipped him over this time. Perhaps he ought to have mentioned that those boys had deserted before getting their ammunition rations. If indeed the army had any ammunition to give. Likely too late for that to be a good idea. Instead he moved to take care of the horse and nodded at Chauvelin. "Go on and lie down. You look a sight." Chauvelin's expression did not alter, until he abruptly turned, walking a short distance to start building the night's fire.

The blaze seemed to sap what strength he had left. It crackled merrily and the Frenchman lay, huddled beneath his coat, quite near. Percy set to cooking what provisions he'd found the day before, glancing occasionally at the drawn face. Neither spoke for a time.

"It's ready," died on Percy's lips when he realized that Chauvelin was, probably had been, quite asleep. As he went to shake the man awake, bells from some nearby town began to toll.

"The Angelus," Percy murmured.

Chauvelin stared past him, into the fire, his eyes large and dark. "That is forbidden."

"Who is to forbid it now, Armand?" The Englishman's voice was nearly gentle. "You?"

The ex-Ambassador turned his face away. "No-one."

**VII. _Ah, ca ira_**

A constant wind came off the English Channel, and Percy was glad for the battered officer's coat he still wore. Chauvelin shadowed him, surprisingly still for a man of his temper, eyes flickering from the horizon to the Daydream, now anchored off shore, and to the boat, piloted by one of Blakeney's Leaguers, that was to take them to the ship and hence to England.

He'd so rarely dealt with fanatics, though, it was probably unwise to assume the ex-Terrorist was well. He'd said nothing about turning back, nor made any attempt to leave, and yet what had he said this last week? Percy wondered if he wouldn't simply disappear Percy was scanning the road behind them, making sure they were still alone when Chauvelin finally spoke.

"The river."

Percy couldn't help a smile. "Practice. Keelhauling." The naval punishment, dragging a man under a ship's keel until he was half-drowned or worse, was rarely used. Percy had little doubt that the ex-Terrorist had heard of the procedure. And less that, given the chance, he would use it.

Chauvelin's gaze flickered back to the ship. "By all means, demonstrate."

The Scarlet Pimpernel laughed. "Next time, perhaps." He hesitated. "Your fine soldiers, Chauvelin - their guns were empty."

The Terrorist's mouth twisted. After a moment he nodded. "I thought there would be something."

"They talked about it," he added. "Thank you for your confidence."

Chauvelin laughed sharply. "It was - expedient."

Sir Percy fell silent. He was exhausted and eager to see Richmond and Chauvelin, like the others the Scarlet Pimpernel had brought to this point, was merely leaving. The two perspectives rubbed raw enough on the trip across the Channel. He sighed and waited until the lifeboat had beached before turning to his old enemy, touching his arm to catch his attention.

"Let's go -" _home_, he almost said. "Let's go."


End file.
